THE VALUE OF ANTICIPATION

CHRISTINE FINN

Archaeologist, journalist; author, Artifacts: An Archaeologist’s Year in Silicon Valley

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As we move toward machines anticipating the every need and desire of humans, what is the value of anticipation?

North of the Arctic Circle, I’ve witnessed the end of three polar nights, bringing the first sunrise for several weeks—as eagerly anticipated today, it seems, as it would have been to ancient hunter-gatherers. Outside a farmhouse in Lapland, I gazed at the sky through a gap in a forest and waited for that first sign of sunrise. As I noted a subtle light change, I heard the huskies furiously barking. The next day, 30 km north, the sun again rose for the first time in ages over a Sami village where once, and maybe still, the long anticipated return to light would bring forth offerings and ceremonials. Farther north still, I’d soon mark yet another polar night ending. My hosts had a sign on their kitchen wall: “Sun comes back 16/1” with a smiley face.

So much of what happens in the heavens is predictable, and that ability to tie down an event in time is nothing new, but increasingly sought after, as technology aspires to anticipate to the nth degree so that little (nothing?) is left to chance. Total eclipses are computed years ahead. And now, I learn, an app will talk you through taking the perfect photos; just plug in your headphones and obey the commands. The programmed event will simply happen for you, even under cover of cloud.

So, I’ve been thinking about the AI question in the Arctic Circle, fresh from the seasonal round of religious, secular, and pagan festivals. And the main reason most of us have traveled here is to witness that hybrid of science and mythical wonder, the aurora borealis. It is a season keenly anticipated and commercially harvested but which, despite the efforts of predictive data, proves surprisingly elusive. The terms hunting and chasing the northern lights aren’t used without reason. In a week, I’ve seen the sky dancing green on four nights. Not a bad result. Particularly when the predictions I generated on my laptop said activity would be quiet. Albeit predictions qualified with a nod to the phenomenon’s unpredictability.

I’d anticipated seeing my first aurora for many years. But no amount of planning or technology would guarantee that I could witness the event at a particular place and time. The factors are complex and the probabilities weigh up. And sure enough, the machine says “no chance” just as I look out the cabin window to see the first faint veil of green. I realize a giddy and growing anticipation. Out beside the frozen lake, cameras whirr, whirr, and are reset. Years of bucket lists are ticked, the lights are caught in the net. And then posted online.

I walk away from the crowd, forgo a camera, and simply watch the sky unfolding as it has done for eons. What will the program be tonight? A slow moving Dance of the Seven Veils strung across the Milky Way? Or a rapid Busby Berkeley routine as the sky kicks up its ruffles of red? The green ripples swoop and sway for an hour.

Would I want a machine to tell me precisely when and what was going to appear? No, thanks! The anticipation is a vital part of the moment. And this spectacle’s unique selling proposition is luck and patience. There’s no app for that.

All I can do is use my own eyes to watch the sky and wait until the last veil drops. And even then I walk back through the snow looking over my shoulder, anticipating, just in case.